Seven Minutes
by The Nearly Missed
Summary: They say that when you die, you have seven minutes left of brain activity before you're completely dead. What did the death note characters see in their last seven minutes? Rated T for now, rating may change. Spoilers for episodes 24 plus.
1. Prologue

They say that when you die, your brain is still active for another seven minutes after your heart stops beating. In those seven minutes, who knows what happens? Who knows what you see? A replay of your life, for some. A crazy dream for others. Everybody's seven minutes are different.

But who knows if you're in those seven minutes? What if, at this very moment in time, you are, in fact, reliving your life in the last seven minutes of postmortem brain activity? You just don't know.

The characters of Death Note are no different. What did they see, what did they live in those last seven minutes? What did L see? Mello? Matt? Light? Only time will tell.

**A/N:**

I came up with this idea when I heard about the seven minute theory for about the tenth time today. It helps that I relate everything to Death Note. ;)

Even though it's more of a summery than anything, I'll list this as a prologue for now. :) I'll be telling of what I think each character would see in his or her last seven minutes. I'll most likely be starting with Mello, as he's the one I identify with the most. That, and his is already half-done. ;)

I do not own Death Note. I do, however, own a T-Shirt and keychain. ;)

This story is rated T for anticipated language and violence. Rating may possibly change, depending on the inspiration that comes for later chapters.

Reviews would be absolutely fantastic and loved—I thrive knowing people are interested in my stories.

Updates for this will rely on muse and time. It shouldn't take too long between chapters, I hope.

I leave you with this last, thought-provoking question:

Are you in your seven minutes?


	2. Confession

_He was eleven. Mihael Keehl watched, a sick grin on his face, as his father beat his mother for the—he couldn't even remember how many times it's been. All he knew was that when his father was angry, his fists immediately met his soft-hearted mother. Witnessing such a thing his entire life, the young genius followed in his father's footsteps. As his strength grew with age, he began to beat up not only his defenseless mother, but the other kids at school, and anyone else who bothered him. Everyone in their small town knew that blond hair, those cold blue eyes. They weren't to be trifled with, unless you had a death wish._

_On this unfortunate occasion, he had been watching a movie with his father. Feeling curious as to why dinner was taking so long, he turned around, ready to fire a string of curses and names at his supposedly incompetent mother. She lay slumped against the wall in the same position as when the last beating finished._

"_Ugh, papa," He grumbled, jabbing a thumb behind him._

_The rather hefty blond man stood up. He took a handful of Mihael's mother's brown hair and pulled her face up to look at him. Her eyes were closed. He wound up and slapped her across the face. The woman fell limp to the ground. "Wake up, you useless bitch."_

Beep beep beep beep!

_The fire alarm blared from the kitchen and his father sighed, dropping the woman at his feet to attend to their burning dinner. Mihael dropped himself onto his mother's lap, regardless of the odd angle in which her legs were bent. He slapped her, lightly at first, but then again harder. Her skin was cold. He made a note to make sure to turn the heat on later. "Mamma, wake up!" He hissed at her._

_When she yet again fell to the floor, his face fell with realization. His fingers instinctively found the place on her neck where her pulse might have been. "Mamma?" There was nothing. "Mamma!" His hand hovered beneath her nose. There wasn't even a trace of a breath. "No," he whispered._

_Mihael stood, trembling. His father coughed in the smoke that was billowing from the stove, where a chicken was no more than a charred brick of carbon. "Papa." He didn't turn around. "Papa! Listen to me!" Still, he only waved his hand in front of his face as he opened the stove to retrieve what was supposed to be the chicken. Dinner was ruined. "Fucking turn around, you asshole!"_

_That caught his attention. "What the hell did you say to me, boy?" He started to turn around, but Mihael's fist was already in his face. His punch connected with his father's jaw, and he stumbled backward into the counter._

"_You killed my fucking mother! She's _dead_, Papa!" He pointed hysterically at the limp body behind him._

_His father lumbered over him, raising a fist to his son. "You're going to pay for tha—"_

_Mihael cut him off with his head ramming into his stomach. The pair fell across the room, and his father's head ricocheted off the edge of the stove. Blood dripped from the back of his head as he lay dazed on the kitchen floor._

_ His son straddled him, landing punch after punch on either side of his face. "Fuck you! You—" Punch! "—fucking—" Punch! "—killed—" Punch! "—her!" His father had long since stopped resisting. Instead, he matched his wife across the room: bloodied and lifeless. The chicken tumbled and dropped onto his head and his wispy blond hair caught fire. _

_Mihael panicked and jumped away, running across their small home to the phone. He held the telephone with an iron grip, terror and adrenaline coursing through his veins. His fingers trembled as he dialed nine-one-one. "Hello? My parents just got into a fight. I think they're both dead, but the stove's on fire and I don't know what to do!" He feigned the freaked out little kid and lied smoothly, glancing back toward the kitchen, where the smoke was beginning to seep across the ceiling. "The smoke's coming!"_

_ The receiver on the other line told him to get outside, and that the fire department would be there in just a few minutes. Mihael knew exactly what she was going to say, and immediately grabbed a few things from his room before slipping out the front door._

_ He stood on the sidewalk and watched the flames licking at the ceiling through the kitchen window. The faint orange glow was soon overtaken by the thick billowing black smoke that gathered behind the closed glass. Mihael shifted, not feeling cold in the slightest despite the snow beneath his feet. The fire before him kept him warm enough in his black T-shirt and sweatshirt._

My family's in there. My mother and my father are burning. _He almost shed a tear, but then remembered how many times he'd been smacked by his papa, and how many times his mother refused to acknowledge his son other than the occasional emotional defense or placing meals before him. He also remembered their bodies, cold and dead, between the living room and the kitchen. He looked at his hands and hastily rubbed his father's blood off his knuckles on the inside of his sweatshirt._ They're dead now anyway_, he figured, leaving the thought of his parents behind as the sirens blared down the street._ I'm better off without them.

_The fire engine pulled up and the firefighters set to work. He was swept away from the general vicinity of the fire by a police officer who had pulled up behind the ambulance and engine. Mihael sat on the back of the ambulance, eavesdropping on the two officers around the corner as he was checked out._

_ "Domestic violence?" One officer, a woman, asked._

_ The other answered. "So he said. Parents got in a fight and it went too far on both sides. Said they were dead."_

_ "Poor kid."_

_ "Mihael?" His chin jerked upward, looking at the faintly smiling EMT. "I asked if anything hurt?"_

_ The genius just shook his head, chin drifting back to his chest. He listened intently to the firefighters bustling around. The small house fire had been put out rather easily. The EMT tried to keep Mihael's attention on him as two gurneys slipped into separate ambulances. Not a moment later, he was packed up as well, riding in the back of the third emergency vehicle, holding his ears as the sirens above whined…_

_._

"…After that, I spent a few days at a foster home until Watari came and picked me up. And _that's_ how I ended up at Wammy's House—the unedited, uncut, raw truth version. I had a hand in murdering my mother, and then immediately afterward killed my father, then blamed it on domestic violence and erased my trail with a fire." Mello paused, taking in Matt's jaw-dropped face. "Any questions?"

"Just one," The redhead managed to squeeze his mouth closed long enough to speak. "How the hell did you kill your parents and not even bat an eyelash?"

Mello just shrugged.

Matt leaned back in his chair and dragged the goggles from his face. A hand ran over his eyes. "You're crazy, man. And I thought _my_ family was screwed up."

He shook his head. "Drug addicts are normal in the world of orphan sob stories. Mine's not a sob story. It's more of…" His voice trailed off as he tried to come up with an accurate description of his history. "…A confession."

**A/N: **

Mello's seven minutes was his memory of explaining the deaths of his parents to Matt, after their five-year separation.

I think I'm going to outline the most important moments of each character's life—in seven minutes. Their defining moment, if you wish. For Mello, it's this.

Opinions are always welcome! :D Constructive criticism most definitely included.

Not too sure whose chapter I'm going to publish next. Probably L or Matt. Get my favorite characters done first. ;)

I hope you enjoyed~!


	3. Needed

It was his third day straight playing his new video game. He'd barely stopped, except for when he fell asleep between raids. Matt glanced at the Leaning Tower of Pizza on the ground beside his couch, and scattered sodas and juice boxes—which he'd broken out once the soda ran out. Maybe Linda was right. Maybe he _did_ need to sit back and take a look at the shithole his life—not to mention his apartment—had become over the last year. Since he left Wammy's House, he survived off of ramen and delivery food like the average college student. His life had been sustained by his video games, cigarettes, and his hack jobs. Linda dropped in on his New York City apartment every now and then to check on him and make sure he hasn't passed out, puked up his myriad of junk food and died from pulmonary aspiration.

Today was one of those days. Linda kicked aside a two-liter bottle of Dr. Pepper as she entered the rather dark living room. Matt's feet were up on the back of the couch, head thrown back as he stared at the ceiling. His pupils rolled to the side and saw what he knew to be Linda's high-heeled boots standing before him. "What?"

She dropped two packs of cigarettes on his stomach. "Here's your cancer sticks."

"Thanks." He grabbed one, tapped the bottom, and reached forward to grab his lighter from the wrapper-strewn coffee table. Linda slipped behind him, taking a seat where his head was. Matt just lit a cigarette and dropped back onto her lap. He looked up at her, blue eyes exposed.

Linda sighed, tilting her head at him. She pulled the cigarette from his mouth and replaced it momentarily with her lips. "I love you."She tapped her forehead against his. Her brown eyes returned to his, acknowledging his blue eyes. "Want to go out for lunch?"

Matt sighed, smoke billowing from between his lips. "What time is it?" He stretched his arms upward, groaning.

"Almost one."

He debated in his mind for a moment. He could go out into the world and actually be _social_ for the afternoon, or videogames. It was a tough choice. _Food, videogames… food, videogames…_

"Sure."

Linda smiled and followed him as he rolled off the couch to his feet. "Go shower. You've been wearing the same thing going on two days now. I'll wait down here." She pointed to the short spiral staircase leading to the second floor—two bedrooms and a master bathroom.

Matt whined, but nonetheless dropped his cigarette in the ash tray and dragged himself up the stairs. "I'll be back."

Upstairs, the redhead stripped and stood beneath the steaming hot water. He leaned against the wall of the shower and lost himself in the pounding stream for a moment before setting to washing himself.

His eyes jerked open at the click of the door. "Matt," He relaxed when Linda's voice called out. She sounded confused.

"Hm?"

"Phone."

He threw his head back. Why the hell did someone have to call _right_ when he got in the shower? He stepped back under the water, rinsing the suds from his hair. "Gimme a minute."

Linda hesitated. "It's Mello."

"_Fuck!"_

His girlfriend recoiled, jumping back slightly from the threshold of the door just by the sudden volume of Matt's voice. "I didn't think you guys had _that_ bad of a falling out," She raised her eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe. She heard a snort on the other line of the cordless phone she held away from her head.

"It's not that—fuck—I got damned soap in my eye!" Linda laughed and Matt cursed at her under his breath as the water was turned off and he stepped out of the shower. He wrapped a towel around his damp waist and Linda held the phone to his ear as he dried his hands off with a smaller towel. "Mello?" He blinked.

On the other line, a voice deeper than Matt remembered chuckled. "No, it's the fucking muffin man. Of course it's Mello."

"Oh," He rubbed his dark blue towel across his face one more time before taking the phone. Linda smacked his backside before slipping out of the bathroom with a smirk. "Long time, no see."

"Nah, it's only been _five years,_" Mello mumbled sarcastically. "Let's just skip this whole 'How've you been' thing. I need your help."

The burning sensation in his eye finally began to subside. Matt crossed the bathroom again and leaned against the sink. "What with?"

"Surveillance for the Kira case. Just stalk a couple people for me, let me know where they go and if they do anything suspicious," He paused. When Matt didn't immediately answer, he added on, "Like old times?"

He inhaled. "Why the fuck not? You're not going to give me a choice anyway. May as well add some purpose into my life rather than being a lazy ass with no future ahead of him," He mused aloud. "Sure, I'll help you out."

"Well you're right about one thing—you're going to help me regardless of what you say." There was another pause as Matt put the phone on speaker and began to get dressed. "You know, if you applied yourself a little, you could be one of the most influential people in the world," the husky voice over the phone observed.

Matt fiddled with the button on his jeans. "Nah. I haven't grown out of the social anxiety thing. Linda's my only real connection to the world anymore. I have no life. I won't _have_ one either."

"Oh, c'mon, what happened to my partner in crime?"

"He died."

"Don't be so melodramatic," He grumbled, and Matt could see his face wrinkling up on the other end of the phone call.

Matt shrugged, though he knew Mello couldn't see him. "I dunno man. I don't do anything but play videogames, hack, eat and sleep these days."

"Matt. That's all you've _ever_ done. It was just more fun when we were little, because you were with me," He paused once more. Matt only growled and dropped a T-shirt over his head. Mello took a deep breath. "Hey. Don't sound so depressed. If you help me with this, I will forever be in your debt. You've always been the most trustworthy person I've ever known. You're a _genius,_ Matt. You were my best friend. I couldn't compare to you even if you never actually tried for _anything."_

"But I don't try, so therefore my life is worth nothing."

"But it is." The redhead once again groaned. He shook his wet hair out and scooped up the phone. Mello continued, "When you and I track down Kira and take him out, we'll be the heroes. We'll be the one taking revenge for all of those innocent lives that were ended too soon by that idiotic murderer. Trust me, Matt, if anyone's life is important at this stage of the game, it's yours. I'm disposable. You're not. No one else could fill your position right now."

Matt hovered on the landing of the stairs. Linda dropped the curtain of the window she was gazing out at and looked up at him.

"_I need you, Matt."_

He turned, blocking his expression from his girlfriend's view. He nodded, slowly at first, then increasingly quickly. "Alright. Alright," He opened his mouth to say more, but stopped short.

"Thank you_._ You don't know how much we need you. _You._ Not just your skills."

"You're welcome, I guess…" Matt took a deep breath and let it go with a sigh. "So who exactly am I tracking, now?"

"Misa Amane and Kanzo Mogi. I'll brief you about it more later. Go enjoy lunch with your girl; I've got to run anyway," Mello said rapidly, stretching.

"Okay. Hey, Mello?"

"Hm?"

He hesitated. "Thanks."

"No problem."

The line went dead. Matt held the phone a moment more to ensure he had actually hung up before bringing it down to his vision. His thumb stretched upward to end his side of the call. He could see the digit trembling. He pressed the button, turned, and jogged down the stairs. He dropped the phone on the couch and grabbed his vest. Pausing at the door, he turned to Linda, still standing in his apartment. He extended a hand and smiled. "Shall we?"

Linda tilted her head suspiciously. The suspicion was gone in a flash, and instead replaced with a pleasant surprise and a warm smile. She slipped her hand into his and passed through the door. "We shall."

**A/N: **

And there's Mattie. ^_^ Yes, I am a shipper of Matt and Linda, whenever he's not with Mello. C: Yay for minor character love! :D

L should be up next, followed by Light, followed by Misa. Stay tuned~!

~Rachel


	4. Proud

There was a rapid intake of breath as L sat up like lightning in bed, eyes wide, a cold sweat running down his forehead. He could feel the moisture of his perspiration sticking his white tee shirt to his back and slicking thick black hair to the back of his neck. When he finally comprehended the sight and feeling of the warm bed around him, he sank into the pillows with a heavy sigh. The white blanket and sheet was thrown backward, and soon the room was void of life.

Thin, long bare feet traveled silently through the halls of Wammy's House for Gifted Children. The inaudible, smooth steps added to the illusion of the hunched-over young man seemingly gliding along. Only when he reached the door he was searching for did his feet come to a standstill, hovering outside. His cold and calculating gray eyes gazed at the window to the door, shades drawn behind it. A single long, bony digit reached out and traced the white letters printed on the glass. _Quillsh Wammy._

L eased open the door, cringing at the slight squeak it gave. Once inside, door clicked closed behind him, he glanced about the empty office. Papers were stacked neatly upon the desk and two chairs were positioned perfectly tilted before it.

L's hand squeezed the back of the chair directly in front of him. The soft brown leather was familiar, something that would never leave his mind as long as he should live. So many occasions had been spent in that chair: his arrival at the orphanage, his punishments for the stinging verbal battles he'd gotten in with other students, and the few job offerings he'd been given over the years. _None were particularly happy memories,_ he observed, biting one of his thumbnails.

Leaving the memories of the chairs behind, he turned down a short hallway at the back of the office not many people noticed. He stopped before one of two heavy wooden doors. He laid his fist against the door twice, offering a pair of stern knocks. The sound of movement on cloth returned from the other side, followed by the thumps of footfalls. The door opened soundlessly. "Having trouble sleeping again?" L could only direct his pupils up to meet Quillsh Wammy's and nod.

The elderly man exhaled with a faint smile. Placing a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder, he turned him out of what acted as his bedroom when he was at the orphanage. L turned, following his touch back into the office. L crouched atop one leather chair, knees brought up to his chest. The boy chewed on his fingernail nervously, waiting for conversation to be initiated. Wammy set an electric water heater to boil for tea and took the opposite leather chair.

L noticed that about him. Whenever he had trouble sleeping and came to talk to Mr. Wammy, he always sat beside him—never across from him. He supposed this was to convey the feeling that they were equals—both intellectually and as human beings. L liked that about the founder of the establishment.

Wammy sighed as he sunk into the chair. "Is it the nightmares again? Or is it too cold in your room? Perhaps the monsters in your closet have reawakened from the days of your childhood? Or are you simply too excited for the morning?" The man asked, sincerely curious as to the cause of L's insomnia tonight.

"The nightmares," L confirmed with a slight nod. His finger remained planted between his teeth.

"The recurring one still?" The elderly man slid his glasses atop the bridge of his nose so he could finally see clearly the orphan before him.

L averted eye contact and examined the pattern of the burgundy and gold carpet he knew so well. "Indeed." Flashes of knives and thugs and a dark, dreary night overtook his conscience for a moment, before he shook his head, flicking away the unpleasant memories and fears.

Mr. Wammy rose and stopped the water before the whistle grew too loud. He poured two cups of chamomile tea and handed one saucer to L. "No sugar. That will keep you up longer than the nightmares will."

Even if L didn't fully believe that, he didn't protest, and instead took the saucer gratefully. He shook his teabag between his index finger and thumb, waiting impatiently for the tea to steepen. He swallowed, his mouth watering in anticipation of the tea, the flowery smell of which was slithering up his nose.

"You know you can't run from this issue every night," Mr. Wammy began.

L ignored him.

"A young man like you needs his rest. Not sleeping is unhealthy for you."

Again, L ignored him.

"Are you sure you're not apprehensive about tomorrow's undertaking?" He paused, waiting for a response from the boy before him. It didn't come. "Like it or not, as of now, you _are_ known as the 'World's Greatest Detective.'" Wammy reminded him as gently as he could. L just stared into his tea before taking a tentative sip. "I know it's a heavy title to bear on such a young person, L. A fourteen-year-old boy cannot survive completely on his own in this particular case, but you have assistance. I am here to help you in any way I possibly can. Please remember that."

"I suppose I do feel a bit nervous." He mumbled from behind his teacup.

Wammy sipped his own tea with a smile. "And that's perfectly normal. It's not every day you take on a new case—especially one this widespread and prominent. But once again, you are the world's greatest detective. You can do it."

_Click._ His teeth worked at his fingernail of the hand free of tea. "It's not normal. I should not be nervous. I know I can solve this case. I can solve any case I want," he paused, drinking again. "I don't know why my heart is racing so quickly." He placed his free hand over his chest and felt the cardiac muscle tense and relax in a rapid rhythm.

"It's fine that you're nervous. Trust me, please," Wammy implored L.

L only bowed his head.

Wammy sighed and placed his tea on the desk beside them. "L, you have become like a son to me. I cannot say that for most of the other children. But you—you are extraordinary even when compared to the extraordinary. Never before have I met a boy as competent as you are. I believe you can do this. You can be the world's greatest detective. The world believes it, and I believe it. My only hope is that you believe it, too."

Wordlessly, L too, slid his saucer onto the table. He unfolded his legs from beneath them and crossed the mere yard between him and his caretaker. He crawled into his lap and buried his head beneath Mr. Wammy's chin. "I'm scared."

He wrapped his arms around the teenager in his lap. "It's alright. I'm here for you."

"You're better than any father I could ever ask for."

Mr. Wammy smiled, blew L's thick black hair from in front of his mouth and asked again softly, "Do you believe you can do it?"

L drew a deep breath in and slid off Wammy's lap. "Yes. I can do this. I should not be afraid. I am L, the world's greatest detective." He stood, still hunched over, and picked up his tea between his forefinger and thumb. Draining it in one long sip, he pressed the saucer into the man's hands. "Thank you, Mr. Wammy. I will rely on your assistance as you've instructed me."

The young man turned to leave. When he reached for the door knob, Mr. Wammy spoke softly, "I'm proud of you, L."

He hesitated. His eyes flicked across the surface of the door as his mind processed what he had just heard. "Thank you." With nothing more, he slipped from the room.

After weaving through the hallways of the orphanage as he had earlier, L returned to his single bedroom, careful not to wake the other children. He fell back into bed, pulling the blankets around his chin and rubbing his bare feet together. He gave another deep, steeling breath and closed his eyes.

_Mr. Wammy,_ he thought, _is a great man. He is my caretaker, my advisor, my therapist, my chef…_

He rolled over, curling into a ball.

_He's my father._

For the first time in almost a full year, L fell into a sleep untainted by the frightening dreams of his past. The sleep was fitful, dreamless, and deep. He was ready. L was the World's Greatest Detective.

**A/N: **

Okay, so I lied. This one doubles as both L's and Watari's (Wammy's) seven minutes. ^_~ L's a bit nervous about taking on his new title, but he quickly gets over it with some encouraging from Watari. C: I think I like this one the best of these first three. What about you?

Light's up next, then Misa, then TBD. :D Excited yet?

Until next time!

~Rachel


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